These events take place preceding DyvINT6-04 Festival of the Sea.
Opulent fails to describe the room. Blue and green tapestries woven of exquisite fabrics from exotic locations by the holiest of women line the wall. The value of one could feed a family of five for two years. Ten of them hang on the four walls wedged between gold-plated sconces and bejeweled ornamentations representing the god Xerbo in every conceivable art form. The desk is a highly polished cherry wood, gifted to the high priest of Dyvers by the high priest of Greyhawk earlier this year. It was a scandal when Asyth Zomawyn accepted it, but the man—quickly approaching fifty years of age—has heard the gossip of saints, sinners, and statesmen. He knows when to be concerned. The desk is a fleeting matter.
As is Lord Lenthenius Shandareth of the House Shandareth. Asyth knows him to be an elf that pursues the path of least resistance; a charmer most times, but a con artist when needed. Which role he is playing today, the high priest of Xerbo is not sure, but the futile attempt by the elven lord to hoodwink him is an amusing distraction from the daily routine.
“These prices are scandalous!” the elf shouts with mock horror. He has been tithing to the Cathedral of the Dragon Turtle since he assumed the mantle of leadership of his house, and at the end of each year, he arrives to bargain. “You can’t honestly expect any self-respecting businessman—especially not a member of the Gentry!—to submit to your extortion! It is criminal, your reverence. Absolutely criminal! One of your factors or servitors or swabbies or whatever you call them are most assuredly conducting some type of embezzlement to suggest that House Shandareth pay the church such exorbitant sums.” The elf breathes heavily for effect, attempting to show the high priest how the matter distresses him so. It is a challenge for the cleric to keep a straight face, but not wanting to scare away the lordling too early, he composes himself and leans forward, scratching his chin with his hand, pretending to take the matter seriously.
“I understand your concerns, Lord Shandareth,” Zomawyn responds, nodding his head slowly. “I hope you can appreciate that the scroll you are now holding is not an invoice imparted on your house by the great Dragon Turtle, but simply a guide we his earthly servants provide for his faithful. This cathedral has, over the years, conducted extensive research on the tithing of our most benevolent contributors. The datum we gathered from such research facilitates the parchment you now hold in your hand.”
“Captain Zomawyn, I must protest! The Dragon Turtle is not the only sea god with a faith or temple represented in Dyvers. Others lay claim to our coin as well and the sailors will not disembark until all their superstitions are satisfied. Surely it is equitable that the sums as you list here should be appropriately partitioned among the faiths so that all may be appeased?” The statement is a mixture of question and opinion, Shandareth failing to commit to either course fully and ending up somewhere in the middle. He screws up his face, frustrated at his own mistake. He is a better diplomat than this, and both men know it.
“What value did the families offer to the Dragon Turtle and how fully did he bestow his grace upon them? The median of those tithes allowed us to determine an appropriate suggestion for the congregation. You are under no obligation, lawfully or spiritually, to give us a copper. But you are asking for the Dragon Turtle’s blessing and have asked us his clergy for our suggestion on an appropriate sacrifice that would earn his favor. We have in turn supplied you with an answer. Take that value and split it among all the faiths of Dyvers for all I am concerned. Your ships and your gold are your business,” Lord Shandareth perks up at this comment. Perhaps he has survived his blunder. “…as the Nyr Dyv and the ships that sail upon her are the business of the Dragon Turtle,” Asyth appends.
“But your eminence!” Shandareth squeals. “We do not wish to anger the Dragon Turtle or besmirch his divinity, but House Shandareth cannot afford the expected offering. We are a lowly but faithful house eking out a living with the few ships we own.” The elf’s face looks desperate, and Asyth chokes down a guffaw. The man is a skilled actor, he admits, but his claims are so far beyond truth that not even the mummer’s trade can make them believable.
“Do you enjoy dining at the Tri-Tower Tavern, milord?” Asyth asks gently.
Shandareth’s face goes blank, the conversation having moved in a direction he had not expected. “Yes, your grace. I find the axebeak fillets to be of the highest quality.” He watches the priest warily. Where is he going with this?
“I enjoy it myself from time to time. My mother and I dined there the day it opened. I have always been a fan. So much so that I took my lunch there only two days past.” Shandareth’s face falls further, if it is possible. He knows where the priest is taking this. “I was distracted during my meal by quite a lovely half-elven woman. Not being married myself, I felt no sense of shame in admiring her beauty, but was disappointed when she was joined by her companion, a very handsome elven man of some stature by the look of him.” Asyth’s grin finally escapes. He had baited the hook and the lordling had bitten hard. “He talked quite loudly about a shipment on its way to Admundfort, and the profit he would be reaping on the venture. The sum seemed quite substantial.”
“What a fortunate fellow,” Shandareth mutters, giving up. “I must have come to see the wrong Zomawyn,” he threw in half-under his voice.
“If you’ll excuse me, Lord Shandareth,” Asyth says, standing up, not acknowledging the insult, “but I have a prior engagement that I must attend to.” The two bow ceremoniously, and the elven lord leaves. It is not the first time Asyth Zomawyn has been compared to his brother, Jereader, the high priest of Zilchus. Although the younger of the two brothers followed his mother’s faith and joined the
“Is it my father,” he asks without saying hello to Apiova, his mother’s handmaid. “Has it happened?
“We do not know, Master Asyth,” the girl answers timidly.
“Stupid girl,” he barks. “How do you not know if a man has died?” He is not so much angry at her, but the girl with her vague answer provides an adequate outlet for his frustrations. His father’s condition has steadily worsened since the Kesser Massacre of CY 595 no matter the spells or remedies the Zomawyn brothers have tried. The two most powerful clerics in the city, perhaps in their respective faiths, and neither have been able to cure the illness consuming their father’s mind. The girl is a reminder of his own failure. “Well?”
“Your father can no longer sit, stand, or walk of his own accord, but he still breathes,” she replies, her voice barely above a whisper. Apiova had always favored Asyth between the two Zomawyn brothers. He always brought her candies when he came to visit. But over the course of the last year, he has grown increasingly mean-spirited. She no longer looks forward to his visits like she once did.
“Go to the fifth floor of the Tri-Tower Tavern. You will find there Kael Lord Herall. Tell him an emergency has arisen, and I will reschedule when time allows.” Without another word, Asyth strides from the antechamber and makes for his mother’s home in the Royal District.
Apiova had spoken plainly but true. The man’s father, a great figure in Dyvers during his own time, now lies helpless in his own bed. His meanderings, previously the various tenets of the Zilchan faith, are now meaningless gibberish: random names and half-sided decades-old conversations. Elsewhere in the room, Asyth’s mother sits at the side of the bed, patting her husband’s forehead with a damp cloth. At the bed’s foot, sitting in silent but determined thought, Asyth’s older brother Jereader, the current high priest of Zilchus, stares at his father as if he could merely will the sickness away.
“Hunter, Stonehelm, Zomawyn, Silvermoon, Eritrian, Margus, Pengallen, Darkeyes,” his father whispers. His eyes are glazed over with a white film, dulling the iris into a Morlock-like gray.
“Mother?” Asyth’s voice is softer than when he spoke to Apiova.
“It won’t be long now,” she says resolutely. “You should prepare yourself, precious.”
“Yes it’s horrible. But it has to be done. For the city,” father whispers to no one.
“Don’t say that, mother,” he barks defiantly. “We have not exhausted all of our options.”
“Yes we have,” Jereader says, matter-of-factly, speaking for the first time. “Brardovia Vallan, Nyderia Ceriwien, Melikor Haoahan, even Amirelle Ediacan have all come and examined him, brother. And when the high priests of the Great Guildmaster, the Dragon Turtle, the Sun Father, the Lady of Our Fate, the Calm God, and the Summer Queen all fail to arrest the condition, we have most certainly exhausted all of our options.” Jereader gives his brother a look of contempt. For decades the two had been arch rivals, the heads of the two most important faiths in Dyvers. Their competition grew so fierce that for many years they had not even spoken to one another. It was their parents that had brought them back together, widdling away at their stubbornness with family dinners until the Kesser Massacre finally reminded them that blood was thicker than gold. A year of affection and cooperation finds them fraying at the seams, their parents—specifically their father’s illness—now tears them apart.
“Hunter, Stonehelm, Zomawyn, Silvermoon, Eritrian, Margus, Pengallen, Darkeyes,” father whispers again. “It’s for the good of the city.”
“Options remain, Jereader,” Asyth states with almost a growl, ignoring his father’s delusions.
“What would you do, Asyth? Should we let that monster Xullithan try his hand? Shall we invite the Reaper into our home? No. It is finished. In a time like this, all you can do is—”
“Cut your losses,” Asyth interrupts, his voice like ice. “That’s what you were going to say, isn’t it? In a time like this, all you can do is cut your losses. Always the servant of the Money Counter you heartless bastard.” The two men, their father forgotten, press together nose-to-nose, each wanting to release his anguish and frustration in a rain of righteous fire. The air is electric with tension, each man standing silent, staring into the eyes of his sibling, begging for a reason to grab his holy symbol and evoke holy destruction.
“Stop this now!” Their mother’s voice is shrill but commanding, cowing them both instantly. They step away, blinking uncomfortably, shame mixing with the anger. “Your father will not want his last moments spent watching his sons fight one another.” Both men think that, if they had not been there, their mother would be crying. But ever the matron, she refuses to be weak when her family needs her.
“In a time like this, all you can do is grieve,” Jereader says flatly, a hint of apology in his voice. Asyth stares at him questioningly. Had he changed what he was going to say to avoid their mother’s wrath, or was he sincere? Over the course of the last year, Asyth has learned just how much heart his brother has hidden beneath his piles of gold. Could he be sincere? Not knowing the answer to his brother’s intentions, he turns instead to his father.
“I can do something,” Asyth whispers, pulling out his holy symbol. The bejeweled dragon turtle had become something of a local legend. Struck from his chest while he and his brother had fought back-to-back in the pit of the hells, Jereader had evoked the name of the gods, using the symbol of a rival god to beg a miracle, the end result being the banishment of Jereader, Asyth, and the cambion Kurault back to Oerth.
Father whispers, “Hunter, Stonehelm, Zomawyn, Silvermoon, Eritrian, Margus, Pengallen, Darkeyes.”
“What are you doing, Asyth?” Jereader asks seeing the holy symbol, shocked. The younger does not answer, but presses the gold and platinum symbol against his father’s chest hard enough that the crust of jewels will live marks in the flesh. “Mother?”
“Precious, what are you doing?” She is not as nervous as her eldest son, but she does notice the strange change in demeanor of her youngest. “Both you and your brother have cast every applicable spell known to the priests of Oerth. You have beseeched every guru, magi, wizard, sorcerer, and alchemist. Nothing has worked! Please let it go. Your father has lived a long and rich life. Let him find his way to the next one.” She places her hand on her son’s shoulder. His muscles are tense, rigid. Something about his posture, his attitude, the stern look on his face wakes a dread in the pit of her stomach. “Asyth? What are you doing?”
Again he does not answer. His eyes are focused solely on his father, intent, piercing. His lips move rapidly in a succession of unspoken words. Both Jereader and his mother look at one another, finally sharing each other’s concern. The elder brother reaches out to seize Asyth’s arm and end whatever folly he might be attempting, but his hand jerks back instinctively as a wreath of blue fire envelops his brother.
“Asyth!” he yells. “Whatever you think you’re doing, you must stop!”
“Forty years, Jereader,” Asyth shouts back, finally answer. “I have given forty years. I have served faithfully for forty years, not asking for anything. I am owed, and I will be damned if I will be ignored now that I am in need. Do you hear me? You won’t ignore me any longer!” The priest of the Great Guildmaster stops, confused. With a sense of dread, he knows that his brother is not talking about him. “Xerbo, I call you by name. For 540 days I have prayed for your mercy, and for 540 days you have ignored me. Xerbo, I call you by name. You owe me!”
Eyes narrowed with a zealot’s belief, Asyth does not see the small, meek hand bolt through the fire surrounding his body, but only feels the shock of pain as it slaps him across the face. The aura of fire falls away, and his eyes wide, knocked from his trance. The holy symbol goes limp in his hand as he stands stunned, staring at his mother.
“Blasphemy!” she hisses. “I will not have it in this house, no matter how many high priests I have birthed. Do you hear me young man?” The look on her face is incredulous, but Asyth doesn’t hear anything she says. The thunder of her blow still rings in his mind, drowning out the world around him. Through the chaos, images flood into his mind: distant lands, places, structures, objects, scents, sounds, words, rituals…answers.
“The Dragon Turtle be praised,” he whispers. He turns quickly and walks from the house without another word.
“It’s for the good of the city,” father continues to whisper. “We must kill the magister…for the good of the city.”